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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28258056">A Rose, A Warrior: Rupert MacKenzie</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightneeBee/pseuds/BrightneeBee'>BrightneeBee</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Outlander: A Rose, A Warrior [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Attempted Rape/Non-Con, F/M, Legend of Melusina, Love Triangle, Mentions of Myth &amp; Folklore, Mentions of PTSD, Original fic divergence, Sex, Threats of Violence, Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:49:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,510</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28258056</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightneeBee/pseuds/BrightneeBee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>One moment, she had been picking her own forget-me-not, and the next she saw Claire pressing her hands to the center stone, the tallest one, and disappear, as if falling through solid rock as a ghost. Elizabeth should have run for the car. She should have sped back to the village to tell the authorities, but she hadn’t thought of the consequences when following Claire’s actions. Elizabeth, with her pale hair whipping about her face, pressed her own palms to the center stone, and felt the world fade to black, as the roar of the wind rang in her ears, and the ground fell out from under her feet. </p>
<p>Nothing could accurately describe the experience of falling through time.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rupert MacKenzie/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Outlander: A Rose, A Warrior [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778335</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This will be a divergence fic of the original A Rose, A Warrior, featuring Murtagh/OFC as the main relationship. There will be slight differences up to Chapter 10, and then the storyline will split between the two fics. </p>
<p>Merry Christmas!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>CHAPTER ONE</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The war haunted Elizabeth. Day in and day out, months after the war had ended. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Inverness had been a welcome escape. A return to a form of normalcy, if there were any such thing. Staying with her grandmother, Gran Murray, and working in the village, the routine helped lift some of the crushing weight of what she had experienced, little by little. Still, moving on with life proved futile. Walks through the fields and tea with Reverend Wakefield had not been enough to break the hold that the war had on her. It was like being caught in a web, unable to pull free, trapped. She was paralyzed at times. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was Mrs. Graham who pulled Elizabeth free, step by step, and day by day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The druid circle that the older woman headed had been welcoming, understanding, and provided a young woman with a new perspective regarding life, death, and nature. The seasons, the flowers and herbs that grew wild, the path of the sun and the moon and the stars, the water that flower in rivers and streams, the way the wind blew this way and that - so many things rooted in ancient history, and Elizabeth was offered a safe environment to study it all, practice it. The chants, the dances, and the rituals all helped her to embrace life after so much death. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Learning the uses of flowers, herbs, and weeds that grew in abundance in the surrounding moors and forests became a calming hobby for Elizabeth. It gave new purpose to the long walks she took along the outskirts of Inverness, so focused on searching for specific blooms and watching the stags and does prance about in the fields, weaving between the trees and chewing at grass. She would always arrive home with a basket full of plants, and a gentle smile on her lips that her Gran Murray claimed could cure the sorrows of any soul. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The months passed through summer, and Samhain approached quickly. The women of the circle were all tittering about the offering to come, while Elizabeth worked with Mrs. Graham on how to move about, hold the lantern, flow with her partner, Mary MacIver. When the morning arrived, Elizabeth was fitted in the same druid shift - a thin white dress over a slip that belled at the sleeves and hung off one shoulder - adorned by a veil and floral crown atop her head of pale, summery hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a crisp chill in the air, yet they were all so excited to ring in the dawn that none of the women felt the cold seep into their bones. They offered their voices and their bodies to the coming sunrise, dancing about the stones of Craigh na Duhn. Through the rustle of the grass, the ghostly singing in the early hours of the morning, Elizabeth could have sworn that she heard a buzzing that grew louder whenever she passed by the center stone. The sound of bees buzzing around a hive, or that was how she thought of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, it was of a little consequence to her, at that time. The sun rose, bathing them all in the suddenness of light and warmth, and then the women began drifting off to get on with their day, while Elizabeth stayed behind for a few solitary minutes. She stared at the stones, and enjoyed the sight of the natural Highlands; the rolling hills and sprawling moors seemed as large and endless as they had when she was just a wee girl. It had been so long since she had lived in Scotland, and it seemed as though nothing had changed, but far different from the droll, misty countryside of England. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing could compare to being home, and that had always been Scotland. In the Highlands, the air was fresh and earthy outside villages and cities, and nothing was rushed. Everyone and everything moved at its own pace, and there was no loudness, no stress. It was quiet and simple. A far cry from being settled, Elizabeth mused, but as much as she remained a lost lamb, each day became a little less harsh, and living became less of a struggle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sooner than she expected, Mary MacIver was calling out her name, and Elizabeth was required to pull herself away from the odd buzzing of the stones, as well as the chilly breeze playing with her hair. It was time to return to reality, and that meant joining Mary in the drive back to town. She was covering one of the other nurse’s shifts that day, and it wouldn’t do to be late. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Elizabeth delivered one baby that day, in the late hours of the morning, and then went about tending to the few names on that afternoon’s roster. It wasn’t a very long shift that day, but it was a small bit of extra money in her pocket, and she was helping out one of the fellow nurses who had small children suffering from colds. By the middle of the afternoon, Elizabeth was relieved and spent her time walking the village. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Out of her uniform, she donned her usual blue dress and wrapped herself against the wind with the tartan shawl that Gran Murray insisted Elizabeth keep to ward off chills. Family tartan. Murray tartan. It was made of thin, worn wool, but it was soft and warm, a comfort. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strolling aimlessly along the high street, passing shops and a bakery, Elizabeth wished she had an automobile to make the drive to the stones of Craigh na Duhn. There was a nagging in her mind, some tendril of curiosity or intuition telling her to go back and listen to the buzzing hum of energy, like thousands of bees swirling around her, but it was no use thinking on it any further. It would be ages before the next ritual at the stones, and by then she will have most likely forgotten all about the strangeness of the sacred place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a heavy wind blowing in from the heaths surrounding Inverness, smelling of coming winter and carrying the voices of people across the square. One voice in particular caught Elizabeth’s attention, as she had spent several years listening to it for instruction, while assisting in the amputation of limbs of soldiers, or digging bullets from flesh. The lilt of a proper Englishwoman of gentle birth and genuine kindness. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lizzie?” the voice called out, growing clearer as the woman crossed the street from Mrs. Baird’s inn. “Elizabeth Grey? Is that you, truly?”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman, so tall and lithe with smooth, pale skin and beautiful dark curls, as well as an elegance about her that always made the soldiers turn a head more than once, smiled at Elizabeth, waving. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Claire?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It should have been embarrassing to Elizabeth to be misty eyed as she skipped the small distance left between them and wrapped her mentor - her friend - in a fierce embrace. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In all the bloodshed and death and hopelessness, Claire Randall was the one reminder of the way that did not seem to darken her day with all the terribleness they had both witnessed. No, Clair had been an immovable woman, a formidable force of nature in all the chaos; collected and confident, and so kind. Elizabeth had always cherished how such a gentle woman continued to be fierce and strong, but also so incredibly compassionate. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How many nights had Claire sat with Elizabeth in silence, offering words of encouragement and comfort? The younger woman had only finished nursing and midwifery qualifications after England had joined the war, and had been recruited and sent to France as a field nurse. She then spent 3 years assisting Claire; following the woman around, taking orders, holding down men, and handing the Head Nurse instruments, as well as the doctor. Nothing had prepared Elizabeth for the nightmarish reality of war when she had applied for advanced nursing and midwifery training at the age of 15. There had been no warning, and suddenly newly graduated young women were being herded onto planes to be flown to France, or elsewhere. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m terribly sorry,” Elizabeth sniffled and laughed, wiping the tears away as the women released each other. “It’s just wonderful to see you, is all. You look well, Claire.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So do you,” Claire replied, expression still so warm and friendly. “Inverness. I never thought I’d see you here after the war.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The younger woman nodded, looking back down the high street with a faint smile, “I decided to come home. Gran is the only family I have left, and it’s peaceful here. Quiet.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, it suits you,” smiled Claire. “I was just popping out to Craigh na Duhn. I saw a blue flower there this morning, but I can’t place it. Would you care to join me?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Elizabeth was wide-eyed with shock, having been at the stones that morning herself, and wondering if Claire had been watching the druid ritual from the tall grass. Still, the young woman had been experiencing that nagging sensation to go back, and with the offer presenting itself, Elizabeth could not help but to accept. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It would be a pleasure, Claire. I’ve a love of the local flora, as well.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The drive was leaps and bounds quicker than walking, and the women were able to catch up on the way. Elizabeth learned that Claire’s appearance in Inverness was due to being on a second honeymoon with her husband, Frank. Husband and wife had only seen each other a total of ten days during the war, and after the last troops and medical personnel had arrived home, there was a slight distance between the couple. The time in the Scottish Highlands was to reconnect after everything they had experienced during the war, the changes wrought on them by hardships and violence. They had become different people, and they were finding their way back to each other. Elizabeth understood, because Inverness had become her sanctuary following the war, as well. She was finding her footing in the post war world, and she wasn’t the chipper young girl of her youth, despite the loss of her parents when she was 15 years old. She was changed, and would forever be changed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was refreshing to confide in another her struggles, someone who understood. Most of the men of Inverness and the surrounding area hadn’t returned alive, while the rest had chosen to remain in England, or move to the Lowlands, or board ships to the Americas. Claire was a comfort, again and again, understanding the shift between who they both were before the war, and who they had become upon their return home. Both women were haunted by the people they hadn’t been able to save. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They talked of Claire’s newfound hobby of botany, and Elizabeth’s interest in herbalism, both with the same intention of finding uses of natural ingredients to combat ailments and disease. It was the first intellectually stimulating conversation Elizabeth had experienced since arriving on Gran Murray’s doorstep with nothing but a single suitcase. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The afternoon took a turn once they arrived at the stones, though. It had been a short trek up the hill to the stones of Craigh na Duhn, and Claire had been happy to learn that she had been correct in her assumption that the little blue flowers she’d spotted that morning were, in fact, forget-me-nots. Regrettably, it all changed when the roar of something echoed through the circle, and Elizabeth’s ears thrummed with the deafening sound of bees buzzing angrily. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One moment, she had been picking her own forget-me-not, and the next she saw Claire pressing her hands to the center stone, the tallest one, and disappear, as if falling through solid rock as a ghost. Elizabeth should have run for the car. She should have sped back to the village to tell the authorities, but she hadn’t thought of the consequences when following Claire’s actions. Elizabeth, with her pale hair whipping about her face, pressed her own palms to the center stone, and felt the world fade to black, as the roar of the wind rang in her ears, and the ground fell out from under her feet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing could accurately describe the experience of falling through time.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The ladies are in for a shock...</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is dedicated to @KITCAT12!!! You've always been a cheerleader, and always prepared to send me a comment, kicking me in the butt to get posting!!! Thank you for being so supportive! So much love to you, dear!</p>
<p>And thanks to everyone who follows, leaves kudos, and comments! I appreciate that you enjoy this journey into Outlander!!! </p>
<p>&lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>CHAPTER TWO</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Elizabeth woke with a groan, clutching her ribs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A long, drawn out inhale of breath, and a sharp pain in her lungs as if she had landed hard on her back, and all the air had been thrust out of her chest. Claire was hovering over her, shaking her harshly, until the younger woman finally woke with a startle, and in a rush, shot up from the ground with a groan. Each breath was a shuddering struggle, but she was alive, breathing, and Claire was there, much the same and no worse for wear. It must have all been a dream, or her eyes playing tricks on her. The older women in the village had always said strange things happen at Craigh na Duhn. Perhaps hallucinations were one of those odd occurrences? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you hear it, too?” asked Claire, obviously shaken. “Did you feel it? The world disappearing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” rasped Elizabeth, pulling her tartan shawl tight around her shoulders. “You know, it wasn’t this cold when we first arrived this afternoon.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire was already up and walking, leaving her own shawl on the grass and stumbling down the hill to the car. Elizabeth was quick to grab the forgotten tartan and follow behind, stopping halfway down the steepening hill when there was no car to be found. The dirt road was gone, as well. Everything was covered by dying autumn grass and weeds. In fact, the trees looked younger, if that were a possible thing for a bunch of ancient trees to do. And something else, in the air. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you smell that?” asked Elizabeth, coughing at the prickling sensation in her lungs as she joined Claire near where the car used to be. “The air… Doesn’t smell like it did… Cleaner? Less tainted? What is that?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened?” mumbled Claire, turning on the spot to look in all directions, confounded by the disappearance of her husband’s automobile. “What…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Elizabeth placed a small, gentle hand on the taller woman’s arm, offering the shawl she had left behind in all the confusion, nodding in a specific direction, “I’m not quite sure, Claire, but let’s walk back. We can file a report with the authorities in the village.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They walked in silence across the plain to the trees, still shaken from what had happened, while looking for the road back to Inverness. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Traipsing through the woods, Elizabeth guided Claire around and over fallen trees and the thick underbrush, until a gunshot stopped them both in their tracks. Startled yet again, they both watched as men charged through the trees in red coats, carrying old rifles that looked new, as if they had stumbled upon the set of a cinema company. Of course, no film would employ live lead bullets in their prop weapons, which Claire and Elizabeth soon discovered as several rifles were aimed at them and fired. Most of the bullets landed in the ground a meter ahead of the women, but a few of the bullets hit their intended marks. One of the bullets grazed Claire’s leg, a shallow cut and very little blood. Another collided in a sapling, splintering the trunk, while two others bit into Elizabeth’s flesh. Blood blossomed through the left sleeve of her pale blue dress, and trickled down her right leg from her thigh. Sharing shocked expressions, Claire and Elizabeth both began to run through the woods, away from the men charging along the ridge above them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire fell first, foot catching on the root of a tree, and she tumbled down a steep slope, a blur of autumn leaves clinging to an expensive white dress. Elizabeth simply stumbled, following Claire’s own tumble with a shriek. The younger woman almost landed on her companion at the base of the slope, both women clutching their wounds, and looking up at the top of the incline as kilted Scotsmen ran along, one after the other, followed by the men in red coats. One of the Scots fired off a round, and took off again, and then more shouting could be heard. Claire wasn’t the only one confused and terrified, while pulling Elizabeth’s good arm around the taller woman’s waist in an effort to keep them both upright. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another gunshot, and it was from a red coat, again, aiming his rifle down the slope directly at them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Elizabeth was the one to pull Claire down to the ground, even as the bullet missed by a meter or more up hill. There was no time to look back for confirmation. Both women remained low to the ground as they fled the scene, too afraid of being caught or killed to stay. Elizabeth followed behind Claire, through thorny thickets and puddles of mud. The low hanging branches of the trees caught at their hair, depositing browning leaves and brittle twigs in Claire’s short, dark curls, and Elizabeth’s long, messy braid. The blood flowed down the younger woman’s arm, as well as her thigh, and it was growing cold and sticky, while every flex of her willowy frame pulled at the rough edges of her wounds with sharp twinges of pain, but there would be no stopping. If either woman stopped, they would lose sight of each other. Or, if Elizabeth stopped, she would lose sight of Claire, and they couldn’t be separated in the woods, for more reasons than simply becoming lost. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sound of a rushing stream ahead caught Elizabeth’s attention, and she was flooded with relief, but never noticed that Claire had slowed to a halt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Frank?” called Claire, as Elizabeth stumbled through the last of the leaves and underbrush, falling to her knees as she tried to catch her breath. “What the devil are you doing?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a man kneeling by the stream, wearing a red coat. His hair was long, brown, and pulled back from his face, tied at the base of his neck. By the way Claire was looking at him, it would be safe to assume the man struck her as familiar, unless the woman was suffering a moment of trickery being played on her by the woods and her wound. Elizabeth highly doubted that, but through the haze of her own pain, the ache in her chest from running, and the tears in her eyes, the man did seem to hold a likeness to Frank Randall. Claire had shown Elizabeth a photograph of her husband during the war. It had to be some strange, vivid dream. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am Johnathan Randall, Esquire. Captain of His Majesty’s Eighth Dragoons,” was all Elizabeth heard through the pounding of blood in her ears and her own strangled wheezing as she tried to get to her feet again. “At your service.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It all happened in a blur as Elizabeth finally regained her footing, leaning against what could have been a sapling, but she couldn’t be entirely certain. Claire was a streak of white running back through the woods, and the man, Captain Randall, a red blur behind her, while Elizabeth came to terms with the lack of air in her lungs, and the darkness encroaching her vision. There was a scream from somewhere, and she knew it was Claire, but taking one small step forward seemed to send the trees tilting at an angle. Elizabeth felt the world spin out of her grasp, and suddenly she was staring up at the canopy, as a dirty, bearded face peered down at her curiously. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Both tartan shawls still clutched in her hand, the man - a Highlander by the look of him, she vaguely thought - pulled them free from her grip and wrapped her in them tightly. Elizabeth hardly remembered his face as he lifted her in his arms, carrying her away. She didn’t register the sounds of boots splashing up stream, or feel the subtle shift in the man’s arms here and there. She passed out, wheezing, and clutching her arm, the faint brush of a beard tickling her forehead, and the horrible smell of a man who hadn’t bathed in quite a while burned into her sinuses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The petite woman woke for the second time that day to the sudden sound of a door being forced open, and then slammed shut. She woke much the same as before, with a long, agonizing, rasping gasp, but that time the pain in her chest was eclipsed by the pain shooting through her entire body. Arm and thigh. Left and right. There were no trees when she opened her eyes, nor mystical ruins from a time long forgotten, and stones that made the world fall away. When she cracked open her eyes, there was hardly any light, and the smell in the air was horrible, conflicting. It seemed to cling to her own skin, and then she saw all the blurry outlines of all the men, and Claire being pushed further into the room, near the fire. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There were two fires, actually. One burning in a brazier, and one in the hearth, each at opposite ends of the room. A red-haired man sat near the flames by the hearth, clutching his arm, head tilted slightly to listen in to the low hum of voices. Half dazed, and struggling for a decent breath, Elizabeth whimpered, catching only a few bits and pieces of Gaelic. She had been taught from a young age by Gran Murray, before her parents took her with them to England. Her father’s sister, Aunt Edith, had taught Elizabeth to speak French, and some Celtic, and told the young girl stories of the Grey bloodline, and how they were related to the Elizabeth of York, and her mother, Elizabeth Woodville, and on and on, back through time, to Melusina, a water spirit of a sacred spring in France. Though there were some who said Melusina had been a water goddess, but certain details were lost through the ages. She had been an ethereal beauty, Aunt Edith had told Elizabeth as a girl on the cusp of womanhood. That was why the females were born with pale blonde hair and dark blue eyes, and could hear Melusina singing from the rivers and streams and lakes and ponds when family or loved ones were soon to die. Aunt Edith taught Elizabeth all sorts of the Woodville-Grey lineage, before passing from consumption after a harsh winter and grim spring. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yet, Gaelic was also Elizabeth’s heritage, the language of her homeland, where she had been born and raised up to the age of eight on Gran Murray’s little farm. Of course, at that moment, she could hardly focus enough to piece the full picture of the conversation together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She did understand one of the men  near Claire identifying her as an Outlander, an English girl, and another man replying, “Did you steal her from her bed, lad?” Or something of the sort. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire was silent, but tense, still. She was drawn into herself, wary, and her gaze turned to the pitiful state of Elizabeth, who was hanging off the rickety table she had been left on. It all seemed a horrible dream, as if they had both fallen through a void and landed in an alternate form of reality, since she couldn’t remember foul-smelling kilted men such as these gracing the village of Inverness in the few months Elizabeth had been living there since the end of the war. Yet, it all seemed too real, while rational thought screamed that it couldn’t possibly be true. The smells, the sounds, the vivid sensation of touch, as well as the pain shooting through her arm and leg proved to be real enough to consider outlandish possibilities. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An older man, bald, with a short gray beard, stood from a seat near the hearth fire, and addressed Claire, a firm grasp on the curly haired woman’s thin arm, “Let’s have a look at ye then, lass.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He guided her closer to the second fire, the light flickering up against Claire’s pale face, and Elizabeth could see the fortitude of her friend returning, as the woman finally spoke, “I trust you’re able to see me, now?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s your name?” asked the older man, the one that seemed to be the leader. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire replied hesitantly, “Claire. Claire Beauchamp.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And that one? What’s her name?” asked the man, head jerking in Elizabeth’s direction. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The small woman wheezed, answering for herself, “Elizabeth… Woodville Grey.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The older man looked at Elizabeth, mulling over her name, “Elizabeth… Grey.” He seemed suspicious of the name, for some reason, and then returned his attention to Claire, “And Claire Beauchamp.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s right,” said Claire, and then she found more of that fierce courage that Elizabeth remembered admiring for years, but now wasn’t so sure it was the right tone to take with a room full of strange men. “And just what the hell do you think you’re -” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You said you found her?” asked the leader, ignoring Claire as if she were nothing more than a child.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man who had entered with Claire answered, “Aye. She was havin’ words with a certain Captain of Dragoons, with whom we are acquainted. There seemed to be some question as to whether the lady was or was not a’whore.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Elizabeth wasn’t entirely certain if it was the delirium from blood loss, or if the realization that they may have actually ended up in the past was becoming more solid in her mind, but the words left her lips before she could stop them, a harsh, biting wheeze as she shoved off the table to unsteady feet, “My lady is no whore.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We could put her to the test,” said one of the men nearby, which earned him a few chuckles from the others, but the older man gave him a sharp, withering glare, and a curt response. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t hold with rape.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence strangled the remnants of laughter from the men crowded in the little room, but there was no chance to respond, as the older man, the leader, spoke again, “And we don’t have time for it, anyway.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dougal, I’ve no idea what she might be or who,” said Claire’s captor, “but I’ll stake my best shirt. She's no’ a whore. Neither the other one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll puzzle it out later,” was the only reply the older man, Dougal, gave as he turned back to the injured man on the other side of the little cottage room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire was released, and immediately caught Elizabeth in a stumble, guiding her back to the table, “Let me look, Lizzie. You’ve lost a lot of blood. How are you even standing on that leg?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The men were crowding around the injured Highlander, while Claire was ripping the long sleeve of Elizabeth’s dress off, poking and prodding at what they initially thought was a simple deep cut, of a sort, but proved to be a rather large, bloody hole in her arm. It missed the bone, thank the Lord, and all His good graces, but it meant Elizabeth would need it cleaned, with the bullet dug out and hole sewn shut, with a tight bandage. The same for the bullet lodged in the slender muscle of her right thigh. Elizabeth recognized the injured Highlander being acknowledged as Jamie, and Claire must have been keeping track of the conversation, as well, because she was screaming at the men to stop before they broke the man’s arm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While Claire worked on the man with the red hair, Elizabeth pressed the other woman’s tartan shawl to the bullet hole in her thigh, grateful the blood was beginning to clot, but worried the bullet was lead, still inside of her, and possibly, slowly poisoning her. Then, suddenly, everything was a blur of motion, and a man - the man who seemed familiar from the forest - reached out to lift Elizabeth up into his arms. She hesitated on instinct, a moment she’d rather not think about ever again, for as long as she lived, flashing through her mind, before she relaxed and allow the man to actually gather her up and carry her out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was a man with thick arms, and a bit of a belly, but his eyes held a glimmer of kindness from what she could tell, and he refrained from any roughness as he carried her to the horses. He set her on the horse as if she weighed nothing, and settled behind her with practiced ease. Elizabeth was pulled backwards until her back was flush against his chest, so she wasn’t pressed against the front of the saddle, and he even wrapped her tartan Murray shawl around her shoulders without attempting any sort of inappropriate touch, of any kind. And when the group set off into the night, heavy rain drowning them all, Elizabeth struck up the courage to ask the man’s name, her voice foreign to her in that moment, so timid and quivering with cold. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Rupert,” was all he said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Elizabeth asked for a small knife to dig out the bullet from her thigh, Rupert gave her a look, as if he expected her to stab him and take off with his horse, but when she hiked up the skirt of her dress to show him the bloody hole on the outside of her thigh, still trickling crimson, he agreed, though rather reluctantly. He slipped his arms underneath her own, providing her with his belly and chest to lean back against as she used the tip of the filthy knife to dig into her flesh and pick at the little lead ball. Biting her lip between her teeth, Elizabeth managed to manipulate the bullet close enough to the surface, and wipe the blood off of the blade on her tartan before handing it back to Rupert. He gave her a leather skin of whiskey without hesitation, glancing between what she was doing to her thigh, and upwards ahead to push low branches out of the way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pulling the bullet out with her fingernails, Elizabeth gulped down a few mouthfuls of whiskey, before pouring a small amount into the wound. Rupert was kind enough, she reckoned. He didn’t touch her inappropriately, and he didn’t talk very much, but he did help her, and that meant a great deal. Even as she fumbled to rip a strip of her skirt off as a makeshift bandage, he was respectful. He simply handed her the reins to the horse, and cut off a strip at the hem, letting her wrap it around her thigh, as it would have been far too intimate for him to do for her. The bandage was snug enough to keep pressure on the wound, but not tight enough to cut off circulation to the rest of her leg. When she was done, he fixed both of the tartan shawls to cover her completely, keep her warm, and then pulled his own up and around them both to protect against the rain. It was as chivalrous as could be expected, considering the more Elizabeth saw, and the more she rationalized the situation, the more she was starting to believe that Claire and she had truly fallen through the stones and ended up in the past. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unfortunately, neither of them had any idea when they had arrived. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, yes. Rupert seemed kind enough, in her opinion. Actions always did speak louder than words. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Highlander was firm, despite his build and belly, and he radiated warmth that stayed inside the tartans, sheltering them both from the rain and the cold of the night. Elizabeth couldn’t see Claire in the dark, but she assumed they were both safe enough for the time being. There was nothing Elizabeth could really do, and the whiskey she had drank went straight to her head. Combined with the heat from Rupert, and despite his smell, she drifted off to sleep rather quickly, vaguely recognizing the way the man’s beard tickled her forehead in a very familiar way. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Slight deviation in this chapter from the sister fic "A Rose, A Warrior: Murtagh." A special little change in the second half. </p>
<p>I really hope you all enjoy!!!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>CHAPTER THREE</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It couldn’t have been more than one night that Elizabeth spent drifting in and out of sleep, head resting back against Rupert’s chest, and cocooned in tartans with the man’s body heat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yet, there came a point when a ruckus rose up ahead. Rupert had given her unharmed shoulder a gentle shake. It pulled her out of a hazy slumber, and she flinched at the brightness of daylight. When he told her to brace herself, Elizabeth held tightly onto her tartan shawls and tensed, eyes clenched shut, and half-sliding, half-falling to the forest floor, while the mend and their horses charged forward around her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire pulled Elizabeth to her feet, making a comment about her ashen complexion, but nothing more. The dark-haired woman simply pulled Elizabeth along in an attempt to escape back to the stones of Craigh na Duhn. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No!” Elizabeth rasped, pulling free of Claire’s grip, only to fall into a puddle of mud for her trouble. “Bloody hell.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Elizabeth, come on! We need to get back!” Claire urged, but Elizabeth refused.  “Lizzie, come with me!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Elizabeth shook her head, huddling in the mud up against the trunk of a fallen tree. Wheezing, she was desperate for a drink of frigid water to soothe the searing heat clawing its way up from her chest. She was too tired, too hungry, and in too much pain to endure another sprint through the woods. “I can’t, Claire. We’re too far, I won’t make it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll carry you if that’s what it will take,” hissed Claire, dragging the petite woman up to her feet, and bracing Elizabeth against her taller frame. “Now move your bloody feet.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They didn’t make it far. Elizabeth’s injuries slowed them down. As they stumbled through the undergrowth, they shared theories of what had happened: Where they were, when, and if it was even possible to return to what they knew. All of their theories revolved around the stones, and that was their plan; return to the stones, and go home. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, due to the fact that neither of them knew the landscape of where they were, nor how to get back to Craigh na Duhn, it was easy enough for the red-haired Highlander - Jamie - to find them. They were effectively caught again, and prevented from their escape attempt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire was talked into enduring more time with the Scots in the hope of procuring transport back to Inverness. The woman was focused on returning to Frank, and Elizabeth understood her desire to get back to her husband, and her life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the other side of the coin, Elizabeth was gripped by a heavy burden of uncertainty. She missed her grandmother, and the routine of her day to day life. She missed the long walks through the moor before twilight, and afternoon tea with Mrs. Graham. Yet, there hadn’t been much life to it. There hadn’t been a spark of </span>
  <em>
    <span>want. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She was confused as to where, or when, or how she would find her footing. To find anything to actually look forward to, no matter where or when she lived. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Further down the stream, Rupert helped her kneel by the flower water. He took her hands in his and washed the drying mud away. Afterward, he filled his waterskin and let her drink her fill. She leaned heavily against him, exhausted, and sighed contentedly, as happy as a biddable lass. She was rewarded with another dose of whiskey, her own leather skin of cold water, and the ability to sleep in the warmth that Rupert provided, wrapped again in tartans and resting against his chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was another scuffle, or some sort of emergency, during the night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jamie had fallen from his horse. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rupert remained seated, Elizabeth tucked against him, slick with fever-sweat from head to toe. There was a throbbing in her left arm, and in her right thigh, bundled in a sort of tightness. She knew her wounds were infected, it nagged like a magpie in the back of her mind, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it. If they ever stopped, a blade would need boiling for the wounds to be drained, and the necrotizing flesh cut out before either could be sewn shut. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or she would have to grin and bear it as Claire cauterized the flesh after excision. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pain would be immense, but it would be far better than blood poisoning, and death. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Elizabeth found it difficult to pay attention to much of anything. Shivering, wheezing mess that she was. She did vaguely register Claire cursing some rather colorful vulgarities while tending to Jamie, but not much else. And after Claire had finished mending Jamie, there hadn’t been much purpose in continuing on. Elizabeth had begun mumbling nonsense, a death rattle vibrating in her chest, which had Rupert raising his voice in worry. She noted that, as it had been very clear to her: the deep concern in his tone. It was the most he’d spoken since she had met him, and she wished she had her wits about her more to remember what he was saying. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The world tilted again when Elizabeth was being helped off the horse, only to collapse and vomit in mud. She was shivering against the cold night air, and the misting rain floating down through the forest canopy. Claire was at her side in an instant. Then there was cutting cold, and more pain. So much pain. Strong hands were holding her down, on her side, as wave after wave of pain jolted through her. She jerked, convulsed, emptied her stomach. Bile mingling in the mud, mixing with decaying leaves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was all she remembered.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, lass,” came a low, masculine whisper in her ear, waking Elizabeth from a dead sleep. “Welcome to Castle Leoch.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She discovered that her arm had been strapped securely against her side, and she was wrapped like a child in tartans, again. She couldn’t tell her dress from the mud caked all over. It was even soaked through the long, mussed braid draped over her shoulder. She mused that she probably looked like a brunette, unable to find single pale blonde hair from what she could see. There were even twigs and leaves stuck in the plait.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Perhaps a bath wouldn’t be too much trouble for the laird of Castle Leoch?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look ahead, lass.” Rupert repeated, voice a rich, rolling timber. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Elizabeth sedately watched as the castle grew larger, closer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It didn’t take long before the weary group passed through the opened portcullis into a muddy courtyard. So many voices, too much noise that Elizabeth struggled to keep track of what was happening. It was all out of place. She simply clung to Rupert, unwilling to let go, and he held her, as if she weighed nothing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A short, round woman by the name of Mrs. Fitzgibbons appeared, very loud, but also very welcoming to the men. They were treated to sly comments wrapped in good natured humor, and a warm embrace, much like a mother would give her own children. Rupert received his embrace, an awkward experience as Elizabeth refused to be put down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A strange expression flickered through the older woman’s features, as one might do while sizing up a possible adversary. Up and down, back and forth, Mrs. Fitzgibbons took in the state of her, as if inspecting Elizabeth for evidence of some foul trade. At least until Claire and Jamie caught up to them.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There were explanations provided about the lack of dress. That Claire and Elizabeth had been brought along on Dougal’s orders. Elizabeth assumed Dougal was the older man with the red cheeks and bald head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mrs. Fitzgibbons nodded, from what Elizabeth could tell from her position. Face pressed against the scratchy wool of Rupert’s clothes, she could hear the faint, steady thump of his heart beating. The familiar brush of his beard whispered against the top of her head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire was the one to dig her feet in before anyone could take a step towards the castle. Despite the agony Elizabeth felt, and her desperate desire to sit by a fire, no one moved. There were words exchanged about how Elizabeth and Jamie had both been shot. They required treatment, and Claire offered that she knew how. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are ye a Beaton?” Mrs. Fitzgibbons inquired, eyes narrowed as she scanned Claire from top to bottom yet again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Elizabeth answered, having heard about the Beatons from her grandmother as a small child. “Healer.” She mumbled against Rupert’s chest, voice a grating rasp that seared through her chest. “M’lady…a healer.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She is, as well.” Claire agreed, quick to latch the explanation. “My apprentice.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At last, Mrs. Fitzgibbons showed them all inside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Away from the bustle of the kitchens, they settled in a quiet room with a roaring fire. Claire brought everything she could possibly need to tend to the injured. Elizabeth continued to cling to Rupert, the room spinning out of her grasp, but she felt safe enough at that moment to dread when he would leave. She thought, if only for a moment, that she saw Murtagh in the doorway, half obscured by shadows. But when she blinked, he was gone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rupert’s arms were strong, and he held her with ease. He never faltered as he carried her, as if she weighed nothing. At the edges of her vision, she saw Jamie settled by the fire, while Mrs. Fitzgibbons cleared off a table. Rupert was the one to hold her down, wounded limbs exposed, as Claire shoved a bit of leather between Elizabeth’s teeth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There were no other remedies for her ailments. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire boiled a blade to lance the infections. She drained them, cleaned them, and then cauterized them. Elizabeth screamed, the air clawing out from her lungs and shredding her throat; an animalistic sound that made hardened men flinch. She strained against Rupert’s hands as the red hot poker pressed into her wounds. When it was over, she was given a bitter tea to drink, still gasping stuttered breath. It was steeped willow bark, scalding hot, but Elizabeth thanked Mrs. Fitzgibbons, nonetheless. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then came the smear of honey over the burns, and clean strips of cloth wrapped around her limbs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The older Scotswoman was a very kind woman, reminiscent of Elizabeth’s beloved mother. She told Mrs. Fitzgibbons such, in slurred Gaelic and through a weary, whimpered laugh. But the woman understood enough to wipe the sweat from Elizabeth’s brow with the warmest of smiles and unshed tears in her eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You call me Mrs. Fitz, ye sweet lass.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shivering against a chill coasting through the room, Elizabeth was swaddled up in the tartans and scooped up by Rupert. He took her up several flights of stairs before nudging a door open. The bed was lumpy, like it had been stuffed with hay, but it was large and comfortable enough. It was warm, too, tucked up under the eiderdown, resting at an incline upon a set of pillows. She didn’t care if bits of straw stuck up and prickled at her legs through the mattress, nor did she care if the duvet smelled faintly of mildew. It was leagues more luxurious than a horse saddle and damp grass under a tree. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sudden loss of a broad chest and strong arms brought her out of the clouds. Sitting up like a snake striking prey, Elizabeth grabbed hold of Rupert’s hand without realizing what she was doing. The act shocked her more than it surprised Rupert. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gazing at her small fingers clutched around calloused digits, she blinked. “The last time I held a man’s hand was as he lay dying. He was crying for his mother. He was so young, and I was younger, barely started with my training. I remember thinking that no one deserved to die alone.” Brows furrowed, she shook the memory from her mind and released Rupert’s hand. “I don’t know why I told you that. I shouldn’t have grabbed you. I’m sorry.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“S’fine, lass.” The corners of his eyes crinkled, like he was amused, or intrigued. “Rest. Mrs. Fitz’ll be up later to check on ye.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leaned down and held her hand, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eyes fluttering as she melted back into the pillows, Elizabeth’s cheeks burned, but she whispered a timid, “Thank you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No man ever held her hand before. Not even a boy. And not outside of nursing the sick. But she found a sense of calm as Rupert did so. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was something in the way he looked down at her once more. He looked like it was a loss to him, as well. The lack of touch. Such an odd thing, but Elizabeth was unsure how, or why. It was simply strange. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of mulling over the thought, she let him pull up the bedding and tuck her back in with a curt nod. She silently watched as Rupert left, and then she slept. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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